


beginnings and endings

by blifuys



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Character Study, Garreg Mach Monastery (Fire Emblem), Gen, Neutral Route - No Route Specified, No Spoilers, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:13:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25520086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blifuys/pseuds/blifuys
Summary: Their father told them that they wouldn’t be staying at the monastery for long.Byleth in Garreg Mach, from the beginning, to the end.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16
Collections: In Time’s Flow





	beginnings and endings

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for _in time's flow, fe3h.fm_! written in accompaniment to the great [Ivy's](https://twitter.com/ivyitsok) piece: "life at garreg mach monastery"; and [chich's](https://twitter.com/chichorie) beautiful art!
> 
> [listen to the full album here!](https://fe3hfm.bandcamp.com/album/in-times-flow)

**I**

Their father told them that they wouldn’t be staying at the monastery for long. 

That is the mercenary life—one moment you’re here, and the next you’re gone. Nothing left behind, save for the little crumbs of food from your last meal speckled on the table; the only evidence that you were there in the first place. 

The monastery is nothing like Byleth has ever seen before. The sandstone walls look worn and chipped, but the buildings are well-kept and preserved. The air is clean, fresh mountain-top winds mixed with the subtle scent of morning dew tickling their nose—and each breath feels like a gulp of water on a hot, sunny day. There is something about the aura of this place; inviting and welcoming. Clean as a whistle, as if the tall, iron gates to the cathedral were doors to heaven itself. Against their better judgement, Byleth feels themselves adjusting, changing and molding to fit into their new home. 

On their first day off, Seteth encourages them to move around and stretch their limbs. The archbishop’s advisor chastises them for only ever leaving their room for classes. He tells them to explore further, instead of simply venturing out of their usual path towards the dining hall when the monastery bells toll at the sun’s lowest. And so Byleth heads out, deciding to find what Garreg Mach has to offer. 

The monastery is full of people. It’s been approximately two weeks since their arrival and Byleth has yet to memorise every face, much less the students of their own class. It surprises Byleth that these students, many of them born of nobility and luxury, would spend their weekends like they spend their school days. They see them loitering around corners of the monastery, book or weapon in hand, busying themselves and spending the hours mastering their craft. 

Byleth spends the entire day memorising their new surroundings. They only stop when the dinner bell rings and the dining hall lures them with the aromatic promise of roasted pheasant. But before they climb the stairs, something derails them from their route.

"Oh! Professor!" A monastery nun waves them over on the fishing pond’s small dock, the water’s surface under her reflecting sunlight like sparkling diamonds. "What a pleasure to see you here today."

"It's my day off. Seteth told me to take a walk," Byleth says. “So I did.”

Byleth’s companion chuckles as they take their place next to her on the dock, watching the sunset ripple and dance on the waves. They stand in silence as the world around them turns to dusk. For the moment, Byleth is at peace—not a single sign of danger in sight, and they are allowed to embrace this moment of respite.

“The monastery is my home,” The nun says, with a contented smile. “The peace and tranquility here cannot be taken for granted. I am thankful for the Goddess and her blessings.” 

“The Goddess seems very benevolent.” 

“She is. With her around, all is well, and we are allowed to thrive in prosperity and serenity.” 

Byleth stares at the surface of the pond, watching the fish skim the very surface before they dart down into the depths of the water—away from sunlight and into the dark where no one can see. 

**II**   
  


Winter is Byleth’s yearly reminder that time is going by. 

Mercenaries, as Jeralt taught them from the moment they learned to swing a sword, do not live like civilians. They exist on a day-to-day basis, their ambitions lie in their next kill, and there are no chapters to end and begin. 

But Jeralt is long gone. There is a void that exists in the Captain’s Quarters now, making itself dreadfully evident every time Byleth passes by. 

Garreg Mach is beautiful in winter. Everything is frozen around the edges, the students swap their black-and-gold blazers for thick, woollen cloaks. The dining hall draws the inhabitants of Garreg Mach in like moths to a flame, summoning hungry souls with the promise of thick, hearty stews—enough to warm their stomachs for the frigid nights that come with the cold. 

But Garreg Mach no longer glows like embers crackling on a fireplace.    


In the deep, winter nights, the monastery freezes over with uncertainty and fear. Byleth watches their students huddle together closer, moving about like a wolf pack—away from the dangers that lurk in the shadows the winter sun casts upon brickwork. Their movements are anxious, trepidation keeping Byleth’s students alert and on their toes. 

The hallways no longer fill with people—Garreg Mach’s inhabitants choosing to keep close to well-lit areas where they can see. Fearful whispers and echoes bounce off church walls in place of melodic hymns. The training field is no longer a place of chatter and lighthearted taunts, replaced with silence and the occasional grunt of exertion. 

Yet, though alarm and panic slowly suffocates Garreg Mach, there is no one to turn to.

Seteth spends the day scouring the grounds for answers. Byleth barely sees him these days, only bumping into him long after the sun sets. Alois and Shamir—who always seem to have the best advice for them—disappear for days at a time on missions. They would turn to Manuela, but her hands are tied as she attends to infirmary duties.

The archbishop's sharp gaze lingers on Byleth, maybe due to their new minty hair colour, very similar to her own. She would not be the only one staring—unsettling glances from passers-by are something that Byleth is still getting used to.

“You must go to the Holy Tomb.” The archbishop said upon their return. Though for what, Byleth does not know. They prepare for their visit, nonetheless.

They notice Garreg Mach changing. Long gone were the days of picturesque tranquility. The dock on the fishing pond goes vacant these days too—leaving the wooden boardwalk uncomfortably empty. The fish no longer skim the surface waters, and the pond is left a monotonous grey hue. 

It’s like the world’s recoiled into its shell—hiding itself away from the sheer cold that envelopes Garreg Mach.

  
  
  
  


**III**   
  


The sun hangs high over the edge of the world, lighting up forests that run for acres on end at the feet of Garreg Mach Monastery. Byleth watches the cats on their windowsill meow along with the singing birds. In the sky, the monastery’s flock of wyverns soar through unending blue—their trills welcoming the start of a new day.

Over the last six years, Byleth’s job scope has changed drastically. They know that they are no longer required to teach. Their days revolve around assisting continental restoration work. Sometimes, their students write them. The new leaders of Fódlan begin their letters with  _ Dearest Professor _ —as if six years haven’t already passed. As if the professor hadn’t followed them into a long, exhausting war filled with bloodshed and sorrow.

They see Garreg Mach in memories. 

Nostalgia is a feeling the former professor is learning to navigate. These days, they find themself peeking out of windows wherever they can, sentimental glances fitted into their days between meetings and tasks. If they try hard enough, Byleth swears they can still see the shapes of students loitering around the monastery, specters of students that had once filled every vacant corner.

Without the students, the monastery seemed bigger. More isolated. Lonely.

There isn’t much to be done without the students—Byleth’s time grading papers and scratching down lesson plans in their large, leather-bound journal has become a thing of the past. From time to time, they uncover an unfinished essay written fully in chicken scratch, or a lone page that seemed to be a part of an assignment, the rest of it probably tossed out, laid to rest by its author within the confines of an old, musty drawer. The scraps of parchment hold no meaning, simple pieces of writing meant for a specific place in time; a specific purpose.

Today, they find a torn page from their journal, wedged in a stack of paper that they should have organised long ago. Byleth has found a pocket of time in their day to clear their desk of documents, all with mysterious origins that they probably should have noted down somewhere.

The page doesn’t have much written on it—a simple “Reason Seminar—16:30” scrawled hastily as if they had been in a rush. But such a simple piece of paper leaves them thinking again; once again reliving the precious, treasured memories of their time with their class.

As they allow themself to get comfortable in their chair, a sharp knock jolts them out of their thoughts, and Byleth gets up to answer the call.

“Who is i—?” Byleth says, only to be cut short when they open the door. Staring back at them are familiar faces—faces that Byleth has seen twist with anger, sorrow, relief and more. The professor’s heart does a curious dance in their chest, a strange lifting feeling that squeezes their heart like a fist. 

Emotions are strange. But they would take time to reflect later. For now, Byleth is greeted by their newfound family, all smiling like fresh, hopeful students—waiting to bombard their professor with questions.

“Hello, Professor! How have you been?”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [i'm @blifuys on twitter!](https://twitter.com/blifuys)


End file.
